“Mummy! Tom!” she cried. “I had the strangest dream! I was swimming in a pool on the isle of Knoxos. And then I woke up here! I must be so excited about going on holiday that I’m dreaming of it in advance.” And then she laughed, a merry bell-like laugh every bit as musical as Thomas had described to us in the hansom cab. Though still terrifyingly gaunt, Violet Stone appeared a wholly different person. Light danced in her eyes. It was a warm light, though, entirely unlike the hideous gleam of three days before. And just as Mr. Stone had said, her restless hands carved graceful gestures from the air as she spoke.
“Violet?” queried Mrs. Stone, and then rushing to her daughter with a mother’s instinct, she cried, “Dear, dear Violet!” She threw her arms about the girl and burst into a violent fit of weeping.
“Mummy, what is it?” the girl asked anxiously. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, Violet,” said Holmes, patting the lady on her shoulder. “Absolutely nothing is wrong.”
Moments later, when the smiling girl announced that she was hungry, absolutely dying for one of her brother’s delicious custards, we knew it was time to withdraw. Holmes slumped in the leather seat of the cab back to our rooms, exhausted. I noticed that the mysterious device he had brought on our journey was now missing, as was the black cloth he had draped it in. When I remarked on this, Holmes looked at me as if I were thoroughly out of my mind and said nothing.
I felt so full of questions as we ascended the stairs at Baker Street that my head seemed about to burst, but it was apparent that my old friend was in no way disposed to explain. He cordially bid me good morning and disappeared into his room without another word.
I spent many hours of the following days struggling in vain to come up with some sort of explanation for the whole business. When a grateful letter arrived containing a generous check and the heartfelt thanks of the Stone family, I endeavored to pry some sort of explanation from the closed lips of my friend, only to be wordlessly repelled once again.
To this day, I have never been able to explain the case to myself, and true to our agreement, no further attempts to explain it to me have been forthcoming. I must, as a last recourse, trust in the account given to me by Holmes. As much as this record may stray beyond the bounds of credulity, such is the sum and the entirety of what I know of the curious case of Miss Violet Stone.
The Adventure of the Antiquarian’s Niece
BARBARA HAMBLY
In my career as the chronicler of the cases of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have attempted (his assertions to the contrary) to present both his successes and his failures. In most instances his keen mind and logical deductive facility led him to the solutions of seemingly insoluble puzzles. Upon some occasions, such as the strange behavior of Mrs. Effie Munro, his conclusions went astray because of unknown and unforeseen facts; on others, such as the puzzle of the dancing men or the horrifying contents of the letter received by Mr. John Openshaw, his correct assessment of the situation came too late to save the life of his client.
In a small percentage of his cases, it was simply not possible to determine the correctness or incorrectness of his reasoning because no conclusion was ever reached. Such a case was that of Mr. Burnwell Colby and his fiancée, and the abominable inhabitants of Depewatch Priory. Holmes long kept the singular memento of his investigation in a red cardboard box in his room, and if I have not written of these events before, it is because of the fearful shadow which they left upon my heart. I only write of them now in the light of the new findings of Mr. Freud concerning the strange workings of the human mind.
Burnwell Colby came to the lodgings that I shared with Holmes in Baker Street in the summer of 1894. It was one of those sticky London afternoons that make one long for the luxury of the seashore or the Scottish moors. Confirmed Londoner that Holmes was, I am sure he was no more aware of the heat than a fish is of water: whatever conditions prevailed in the city, he preferred to be surrounded by the noise and hurry, the curious street scenes and odd contretemps engendered by the close proximity of over a million fellow creatures, than by any amount of fresh air. As for myself, the expenses incurred by my dear wife’s final illness prevented me from even thinking of quitting the metropolis—and the depression of spirits that had overtaken me from the same source sometimes prevented me from thinking at all. While Holmes never by word or look referred to my bereavement, he was an astonishingly restful companion in those days, treating me as he always had instead of offering a sympathy which I would have found unendurable.
He was, as I recall, preparing to concoct some appalling chemical mess at the parlor table when Mrs. Hudson’s knock sounded at the door. “A Mr. Burnwell Colby to see you, sir.”
“What, at this season of the year?” Holmes thumbed the card she handed him, angled it to the window’s glaring light. “Heavy stock, one and six the hundred, printed in America in a typeface of a restraint generally found only in the most petrified of diplomatic circles but smelling of—” He broke off, and glanced at Mrs. Hudson with eyes suddenly sharp with wary interest. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I shall see this gentleman. Watson, if you would remain, I would much appreciate an outsider’s unbiased view of our guest.”
For I had folded together the newspaper, which for the past hour I had stared at, unseeing, preparatory to making a retreat to my bedroom. To tell the truth I welcomed the invitation to remain, and helped Holmes in his rapid disposal of alembic and pipettes into his own chamber. As I reached down for the card, still lying on the much scarred rosewood, Holmes twitched it from my fingers and slipped it into an envelope, which he set in an obscure corner of the bookcase. “Let us not drip premature surmise into the distilled waters of your observation,” he said with a smile. “I am curious to read what would be writ upon a tabula rasa.”
“Behold me unbesmirched,” I replied, throwing up my hands, and settled back onto the settee as the door opened to admit one of the most robust specimens of American manhood that it has ever been my privilege to encounter. Six feet tall, broad of shoulder and chest, he had dark eyes luminous with intelligence under a noble brow in a rather long face, and by his well-cut, if rather American brown suit and gloves of fawn kid, he clearly added material wealth to the blessings of kindly nature. He held out his hand to Holmes and introduced himself, and Holmes inclined his head.
“And this is my partner and amanuensis, Dr. Watson,” said Holmes, and Mr. Colby turned unhesitatingly to shake my hand. “Anything that may be said to me may be said in his presence as well.”
“Of course,” said Colby, in his deep, pleasing voice, “of course. I have no secrets—that’s what gravels me.” And he shook his head with a ghost of a chuckle. “The Colbys are one of the wealthiest families in New England: we’ve traded with China for fifty years and with India for twice that, and our railroad interests now will better those profits a thousand percent. I’ve been educated at Harvard and Oxford, and if I may say so without tooting my own horn, I’m reasonably good to look on and I don’t eat with my knife or sleep in my boots. So what would there be about me, Mr. Holmes, that would cause a respectable girl’s guardians to reject my suit out of hand and forbid me to exchange a word with her?”
“Oh, I could name a dozen commonplace possibilities,” replied Holmes, gesturing him to a chair. “And a score more if we wished to peruse a catalog of the outré. Perhaps you could tell me, Mr. Colby, the name of this unfortunate young lady and the circumstances under which you were so rudely ejected from her parents’ favor?”